Spirits' Night
by ShinyShiny9
Summary: It's a full moon this Spirits' Night, and all the ghosts from the Cursed Realm want to make the most of their one yearly night to roam in Ninjago — except the Soul Archer. However, little does he know what's in store for him… (Guest-written by FireLord54!)


**You guyyyyyys! I am so excited I can't even tell ya. One of my fellow DA-account-sharers has finally written her first fanfic! And since she doesn't have an account on FFN, I'm posting it here on her behalf. Please give a warm welcome to FireLord54! ^_^**

 **Timeframe: Shortly before Season 4.**

* * *

When the First Spinjitzu Master created Ninjago, back when the world was young and new, it was inevitable that where there was light, darkness and shadows would also arise. It was only a matter of time before the First Spinjitzu Master found himself engaged in a long and grueling battle with an evil, dark spirit; a battle that, for the time being, would only be ended after the Master split off a portion of the original island of Ninjago and let it drift far away, isolating the evil entity from the mainland. All of Ninjago should have rejoiced at this victory, and most of its people did.

However, there were those who were unhappy at the defeat of the dark spirit they call the Overlord; discontent with the Master and his ways. As long as there is time, as long as humanity prevails, it seems there will always be a few dissidents. It wasn't long before some thousand Ninjagians rose up in rebellion against the Master and all those who followed him in a terrible civil war that would become known as "the Resistance." The rebels were considerably outnumbered, but numbers were of little importance to them. Many were ninja, masters of stealth, who only saw shadows as a way of life. The warriors travelled in small bands, only emerging from the undergrowth and shadows to strike with devastating hit-and-run tactics. They were not to be mistaken for cowards though, for when left with no choice but to fight, they fought with the ferocity of hungry wolves.

As the war raged on and the casualties climbed, the First Spinjitzu Master realized he would need to do something soon if Ninjago were to be saved. He selected nineteen brave, young men and women from amongst his noble fighters and granted each one a different power, from fire and ice to shadow and light. Known as the Elemental Masters, they became his closest comrades and guardians, and with their help, Ninjago regained hope. The Elemental Masters were some of the finest warriors to battle for Ninjago, and many legends telling of their deeds took form with the years. Sadly, some of the masters lost their lives in the war, including Malcor, master of the wind and father of Morro. However, all but the master of ice would survive to have children or grandchildren of their own who would inherit the same power as their ancestor.

After many battles, the First Spinjitzu Master's legion at last emerged victorious. The surviving rebels were captured, but despite the misery they had brought to so many, the Master was willing to spare them if they agreed to renounce their ways and live the rest of their lives peacefully. The rebels refused. Seeing that their proud hearts would never change, the Master feared he had no other choice but to banish them from Ninjago, or it would never know peace. Reciting an ancient spell, he opened a portal that transported all the rebels to a dark and terrible place, a realm all its own: the Cursed Realm.

For the time being, peace was restored to Ninjago, and it slowly began to recover from the terrible destruction that the war had left behind. Despite this, the First Spinjitzu Master was not proud of his act, and he knew that this dark spell of banishment would come back to haunt his children and grandchildren alike. His friends felt that he was never quite the same since, and that the memory of those cursed Ninjagians pursued him to the grave. Although he strongly advised against it, the spell was soon recorded in a large book among many other strange spells that had been gathered over time. This book would pass between many hands until Lloyd Garmadon, grandson of the First Spinjitzu Master and legendary hero of Ninjago, destroyed it. As for the cursed warriors, they were soon forgotten, never to be seen in Ninjago again. Or so it seemed.

Legend says that on a certain night each year, the spirits of the deceased roam Ninjago freely, even those otherwise trapped in the Cursed Realm. On this night, generally referred to as "Spirits' Night," many children in Ninjago like to dress up in costumes of all kinds and eat delicious candies. In more rural areas, however, where old customs tend to prevail, the more ancient traditions associated with this night are still practiced by many. Offerings of food and drink are left outside villagers' homes, perhaps on a windowsill or a small table, for any spirits who might happen to pass through the village. Although ghosts are said to be highly vulnerable to any kind of fluid, immediately disintegrating when touched by any large amount of it, it would appear their fates are not so cruel that they would be denied the ability to enjoy the simple pleasure of a drink. Whether this practice is done out of mere pity, hopes of good fortune, or a cautionary attempt at appeasing any malicious spirits that might threaten the household seems to vary with who is asked. However, there is one thing every villager in Ninjago seems to agree on: "Keep your eyes open on Spirits' Night. Strange things happen then— especially when the moon is full!"

* * *

The night was setting in quickly. The trees whispered softly as the wind gently tugged upon their limbs, urging them to hasten the shedding of their brittle, brown leaves in preparation for the colder days ahead. The sun, sinking slowly behind the horizon, left streaks of blazing crimson and yellow where it had scraped the sky in its passing, only for them to bleed slowly down the great canvas in pursuit and into the bowl of the hills beyond. All seemed peaceful in Ninjago as darkness descended upon it.

Yet in the Cursed Realm, the vessel of many a doomed one, something was happening, and every ghost could feel it. From within the black void of their bleak existence, something had begun to stir among them, like the ripples stirred up by a pebble when it is dropped into a pool. Though faint at first, it gradually gained momentum so that soon every ghost, human and Anacondrai alike, was in a kind of mad frenzy, gliding back and forth like the atoms in an object under intense heat. The barrier between their world and Ninjago was weakening with each passing moment.

Then, as sudden as a revelation, the very fabric of the Cursed Realm was ripped open, giving way to a dark, gaping, swirling portal. No sooner had this portal appeared then every ghost rushed to dive through it; out of the Cursed Realm, into Ninjago. Spirits' Night had begun!

As soon as the cursed ghosts had flooded into Ninjago, each one flew off in one direction or another, dispersing like pollen in the spring wind. Some headed for human settlements, eager to see what offerings might have been left out for them, while the more playful ones went off to see what kind of mischief they might stir up among the mortals. Others found themselves drifting off to various parts of Ninjago, the silent urging of past memories drawing them like an invisible force to places that must have held significance during their former existence.

However, this night found the Soul Archer drifting somewhat aimlessly in some farmers' fields, as he knew of no particular place that he cared to bear himself to. Presently though, he stopped to turn in the direction of a familiar voice that called out his name.

"Archer, my comrade, there you are! I was beginning to wonder where you had gotten to."

"Bansha?" said the ancient archer, instantly recognizing his old acquaintance. "What is it?"

"There's a house in the nearby village whose dwellers had the consideration to leave out some especially choice pickings for us tonight," rasped the female ghost. Come and have some, before someone else does."

The archer shook his head. "Let Ghoul Tar join you, if you wish. Where is he, even?"

"Where do you think? Scouring villages all over Ninjago in his everlasting quest for those pastries he calls 'puffy pot-stickers.'"

The archer snorted. "The fool. I believe he would have readily abandoned us for the other side in the war if they had only known to aim for his stomach."

The mask Bansha wore saved her the need to hide the smile that tugged ever so slightly at her normally serious lips upon hearing these words. "Why am I not surprised you refused?" she said. "I wouldn't have expected anything less from you. You never take the offerings left out for us."

"Why should I?" replied the soul archer. "You know as well as I do that we ghosts have no need to eat or drink. Eating might mean something to these pathetic mortals, but to us it's nothing more than the useless pursuit of some pleasure that only served us when things were very different."

It was true. Though the hunger stabs and the thirst burns for those in the Cursed Realm, there being neither food nor drink there, its inhabitants have no actual need for these mortal necessities, as they are little more than foggy versions of their former selves. Nonetheless, many cursed ghosts take great pleasure in whatever meal they can find on this one night in Ninjago. The archer had always found something disgustingly human about this behavior, even bordering on weakness, and as far as his memory as a ghost could go back, he had never eaten or drunk a single thing, even when his friends invited him to join them for a meal. Tonight would be no exception.

"Have it your way, then," Bansha replied, her voice betraying the slightest hint of offense at his words. "Should your mighty stomach suddenly change its mind though, take this along just the same." And she procured from her cloak a red and gold apple, large and juicy, and held it out to him firmly.

The soul archer gazed momentarily at the tantalizing fruit, as though he were contemplating something. "An apple?" he said curiously. "If my memory serves me, back when we lived here in Ninjago you often had me shoot one down for you whenever we came upon an apple tree, sometimes even when the fruit wasn't ripe enough yet. You must have loved apples with a passion to do that. But then, you always were the impatient one."

"Then let me repay you with this one," insisted Bansha. "Or are you now above receiving returned favors as well?"

The soul archer took the apple silently and tucked it under his own hood. He then turned and started to go, but paused momentarily to look back over his shoulder. "The night only lasts for so long," he warned. "If you have other things to attend to, I'd go to them now." And without another word, he flew off silently into the night.

He didn't get very far though. His course found him wandering further from the human settlements and closer to the forests nearby, where the trees were quickly beginning to thicken. Perhaps he thought the dark and forbidding woods promised a quiet place for him to take his thoughts with him, for he was not a social animal.

All at once, the sound of twigs cracking and the rustling of bushes somewhere nearby quickly caught the soul archer's attention. He stopped short in his tracks and cocked his head to try detect the source of the noise. Whatever was making that racket sounded to be in a hurry, and judging by how the noise was becoming louder, it was coming ever nearer.

The archer contemplated whether it would be better to stand and meet this unknown creature or simply hide and wait it for it to pass so he could be on his way again when he recalled that it had been a while since he had last found something worthwhile to use his bow on. He took his position as a bowman, dead or otherwise, very seriously, and aside from target practice (Ghoul Tar really did make an ideal moving target) he did not like to use his weapon unless in a true battle. He pulled out one of his sturdy arrows and drew it back in his bow, keeping it taut, and pointing it in the direction the sound seemed to come from, hovered in wait. Whatever foe it might be wouldn't know what hit it, or at least not until after it had already been turned into a ghost.

Suddenly, something came crashing through the bushes, panting heavily. The moon was large and full tonight and shed a good deal of light on the archer's surroundings, enabling him to make out who the stranger was. It appeared to be a man, perhaps of middle age, with a large, red rice hat that topped shoulder-length brown hair and a somewhat unshaven face, a peculiar eyepatch resembling a lens covering the right eye. He was now stooped over with his hands resting on his knees, panting, and had not yet noticed the archer as he relaxed his bow. This stranger did not appear to be a threat, and the bowman looked on with some curiosity as he waited to see what the man would do next.

"Man, that was close," gasped the man as his breath came back to him. "If I'd just been a little more—yagh!" he yowled, leaping back upon seeing the glowing, hooded figure in front of him. The soul archer, however, remained where he was, glaring at him with piercing eyes. As the glowing figure seemed to make no sound or movement, the man inched cautiously towards it and quickly thrust out his hand, only for it to go right through. Again the man shot out his hand, and again it went right through the specter. At this the man sighed and stepped back, apparently relieved.

"Ugh, I knew there was something odd about that chop suey," he muttered. "That's the last time I'm taking one of their 'discount specials.'" And as though to prove the strange misty fellow before him was nothing more than an illusion, he picked up a stick and threw it at the archer. You can only imagine the man's surprise when the apparition snatched the stick out of the air as it flew at him and promptly dropped it on the ground without amusement.

"You do realize I can talk, yes?" said the archer, glaring.

The stranger's eyes widened with surprise. "This stuff's so bad I'm even hearing things now," he murmured. "What do they even put in here that makes you hallucinate like this, Venomari spit?"

"Believe me, you are not hallucinating," rumbled the archer. "And clearly, you have no idea what I could do to you if you test my patience, mortal."

"It's Ronin, thanks," said the man, folding his arms defensively. "And in that case, who are you then?"

"They call me the soul archer," replied the ghostly warrior. "though my friends tend to call me simply 'archer.' You, however, are no friend of mine."

"Soul archer? What kind of name is that?" asked Ronin, more curious than intimidated.

"It serves me well enough," said the archer icily. "And I'll have you know it wasn't always my name, nor was I always in this form."

"Yeah?" said Ronin. "This is one I've gotta hear."

As Ronin continued to look expectantly at him, the archer realized he would have to tell him his story. "There was a time when I too walked as freely in Ninjago as you do now," he began.

"Before you became a ghost?" asked Ronin dryly, eyeing the archer's luxurious wisp of a tail.

The archer growled. "Yes, what do you think? I also knew a time when the sun warmed my face and water was not something to be feared like a disease."

"So…what happened?"

At that time, the one they call the First Spinjitzu Master battled a mighty force of darkness," continued the ancient archer. "He did not defeat it, but banished it from Ninjago by trapping it on an island far away. However, there were many of us who were…unhappy with the arrangement. My allies and I swore to overthrow the First Spinjitzu Master and anyone who stood in our way, which apparently meant most of Ninjago."

Ronin whistled. "You didn't do things by halves back then, did you?"

"For the longest time, we had the upper hand. But then—"

"Let me guess, the tide started turning."

"Indeed," said the archer, not without some bitterness in his voice. "If it hadn't been for those warriors they called the Elemental Masters, we might have even won. We fought with our skills and weapons alone—" he failed to mention treachery and terrorization "—but they fought us with powers that had been merely handed over to them. The First Spinjitzu Master _gave them_ an unfair advantage over us!"

Ronin suspected bias in the ghost warrior's acount, but he felt it better not to ask questions.

"We fought our hardest," continued the archer, "but little by little they wore us down. One of my allies, who I am closely acquainted with, possessed some skills in sorcery, but even that was not enough to stop our enemies. Those of us left alive were all captured in a final battle and not long after brought before His Greatness himself, who gave us an ultimatum. Some of our wounds from the battle had barely even started to heal yet," he added more softly, gently touching his upper left arm.

For a few moments, he was lost in a bitter memory. During the fight, he had been struck by an enemy's arrow in that region. Though a strong and resilient warrior, the considerable loss of blood had weakened him, and although the bow was his primary weapon, it was useless with only one good arm. The archer and all his fellow warriors were captured that day, and he partially blamed its happening on the crippling arrow wound.

"Which was…?" Ronin's question about the ultimatum snapped the archer back to reality.

"Give up our cause and live in peace or face the consequences," snorted the archer. "He clearly underestimated us if he thought it even worthwhile to give us that option. We'd have sooner died."

"Er…did you?"

"No, but he may as well have done away with us on the spot. Instead, he opened a portal that sent us all to the prison of a dimension they call the Cursed Realm, where we remain to this day."

"What's it like?" asked Ronin, who made it a special effort himself to avoid winding up in prison.

"You really want to know?" said the archer coldly. "I think you will change your mind when I am through. What we found waiting for us in that realm were shackles and cages in a void more dark and barren than the underworld. In these methods of confinement were we forced to bide our time, but although we never had a bite to eat or a sip to drink, we had seemingly lost the ability to die of hunger or thirst. There is no sun or moon there, only darkness, and thus no way to tell how time passes, though it wasn't long before we ceased to care. Soon, we one by one found ourselves forgetting our own names and our comrades' names as well, because no one living in Ninjago remembered us. Finally, our very bodies began to disintegrate: we began fading; became increasingly less solid, until all that was left of us each is what you see before you now. When that happened, we simply passed straight through our shackles, prison bars, or whatever had kept us confined. Because we could not remember our names, we had no choice but to take on new ones. And mine became the 'Soul Archer.'"

For a moment, Ronin did not say anything. Then he spoke. "That _is_ pretty rough," he admitted, a trace of what might have been sympathy in his voice. "How did you escape?"

"For us ghosts, there is no 'escape.'" Said the archer. "Not yet. But one night each year the barrier between our two worlds weakens enough that we are able to cross over into Ninjago and mingle with the mortals. Tonight is that night. However, when the morning comes, my comrades and I will all be dragged back into our prison, like always."

"So you're saying there are more of you on the loose?" said Ronin. "Right now?"

"Yes," replied the ghost. "Many more. However, it seems destiny chose for us to cross paths on this night, Ronin."

"So you acknowledge the 'mortal's' name," grinned Ronin. "I'm flattered. Thinking about it though, why doesn't this sorcerer friend of yours use his magic to try transport you all out of this Cursed Realm or something?"

"Sorcer _ess_." Corrected soul archer. "And though her skills are many, transportation is not one of them."

"Figures," said Ronin. "And oh, it's a lady friend, eh?" He cocked his eyebrows knowingly. "You two going steady?"

Seeing the puzzled look in the ancient warrior's eyes, Ronin realized the ghost didn't understand what the words meant in this context. "You know, are you two an item?" he tried again.

"We are ghosts, not 'items.'"

"Ugh, never mind," Ronin sighed. Partly for the sake of trying to salvage himself from the awkward position he'd gotten himself into, he turned his attention to the slender bow hanging on the archer's back. "Hey, nice looking bow you have there. You, uh, ever use it on anyone these days?"

"Not for some time," admitted the archer. "But I assure you in my day it claimed many a victim for me."

"Ah," said Ronin, taking a step back.

The archer took down the ghostly bow and ran his hand over it fondly, feeling the smooth, ethereal wood. It had been carried with him for much of his life; served him in many a great battle, and now he carried it with him in death as well. "I was quite the sharp shot in my time," he said proudly. "And still am. I never miss a target."

"Any target?" asked Ronin skeptically.

"Especially now, any."

"Get real."

"I am very real."

"No, I mean— look, you couldn't hit an object that was hidden behind another object, could you?"

"I most certainly could."

At this Ronin began laughing.

"What are you laughing at?" growled the soul archer. "Do you doubt my word?"

"Maybe," Ronin chuckled.

"Then give me a target to demonstrate with; anything in this area," said the archer. "And we'll see if you are still laughing afterwards."

"All right then, I will," said Ronin. "And tell you what, let's make a bet on it. Let's just say there are some things I'm after that would be a lot easier to get my hands on with someone like you helping. If you can't hit your target, I win the bet, and you have to help me with my errands for the rest of the night."

"And if I _do_ hit the target?" asked the archer suspiciously.

"Eh, guess I'll pay you some, just as a token of proof. 100."

"That is meager. If you are so sure I'll fail, why don't you bet more?" challenged the archer.

"Fine, 200."

"Is that uncertainty in your eyes?"

"400."

"As proof of your confidence, why don't you just put a million at stake?" said the ghost. "Though I promise you would regret it."

"All right then, I will! A million it is," declared Ronin.

Have it your way," said the archer. "Now give me your target of choice."

Ronin swept his gaze over the moonlit landscape surrounding them till his eyes finally fell upon a large oak, one of the larger trees that grew on the outskirts of the nearby woods. "That large oak there." He pointed. "If I remember right, there's a young tree growing behind it from where you're standing. Hit that little thing's trunk, and I'll have seen just about everything."

"Then keep your eyes open," said the archer, "and don't get in my way." He pulled out an arrow from his quiver and slowly drew it back in the bow, till the bow was nearly folded in half. For a moment, time seemed frozen as he stood there in position, his eyes narrowed to fiery slits of concentration; the arrow poised in wait to strike its prey. Then all at once, the bow snapped back into its original shape, and the arrow took flight.

Under any other circumstance, the arrow should at best have driven itself into the oak, as Ronin naturally suspected it would. Instead, the arrow had barely left its perch when a peculiar green and glowing form materialized around its shaft. Ronin could not get a good look at it, but he heard an unearthly screech sound from it as it flew, as though it were something alive. The only thing more astounding than this was what the arrow did next. Just as it headed for the tree, the arrow suddenly veered, as though it had a mind of its own, and vanished behind the oak, where the _thwack_ of young bark being struck could be heard coming from the spot.

"What in the… world…!?"

"I never miss," stated the archer. "Now honor your side of the bet."

Ronin gulped. "Uh, I'm not sure I can "honor" it just now," he said, fidgeting uneasily. You see, I'm just a little…short right now?"

At this, the archer snarled. "You fool!" he cried, hovering closer to Ronin, his eyes locked on him and blazing with fury. "You should have known better than to make a bet you couldn't fulfill."

Ronin began to back away nervously. "But you—look, I'm sorry I laughed at you. Heck, I don't what that thing on your arrow even was, but was that even fair? If I'd known—" The thief suddenly stumbled, falling over onto his back.

"That young tree has been turned into nothing but a specter because of my arrow," cried the archer, "and I have a good mind to do the same to you now!"

Ronin shut his eyes and cringed, expecting to be run through with an arrow any second now. Instead, he felt a sickening chill sweep through him as though his blood had momentarily turned to ice, only for it to thaw again as suddenly. When nothing else happened, he opened his eyes, only to see the archer still looming over him intimidatingly. "What was that?" he asked, though afraid to hear the answer.

I've cursed your spirit," Said the phantom coolly. "How can I expect you to pay off the debt if you're dead?"

"But—but—a million? That'll take forever to pay off!"

"You're a thief, aren't you?" You might as well make use of your skills," said the archer. "And perhaps it will teach you not to gamble with my bow in the future. And oh yes," he added ominously as Ronin began to pick himself up dazedly, "I will be gone with the morning, but I can promise you I will return next Spirits' Night, and every one after. Maybe even sooner. If you pay off the debt while you are still alive, I will lift the curse, and you will be free to live your life. However, should your time run out before that happens—" his voice dropped to a chilling whisper "—you will be _mine_." And with that, he turned his back on the thief and the friendship that had almost been and sailed silently into the darkness of the woods.

How long exactly the archer travelled, he wasn't sure, though it hardly seemed to matter. Deeper and deeper into the woods he moved, his rage smoldering within. Humans! He should have expected nothing less from one of them. All talk, little action, and empty promises. And to think that he was once one of them!

The archer came to a sudden stop as this thought hit him. He had now arrived at an ancient graveyard deep in the woods, one that civilization had long abandoned and left to become overgrown with mosses and vines. Stone monuments of various sizes encircled him in a ring, silent and ever-vigilant reminders of those gone before. The archer had come to this place many a Spirits' Night to linger, as if drawn by the eerie serenity it provided in these forbidding woods.

Though he had never let on, he sometimes secretly wondered what it would have been like to have a grave of his own, even a humble one; a place his spirit could come home to and rest. But he was to be denied even that. What use was a grave when your body had been dissolved in some distant dimension? Had he died in Ninjago, no one would have wanted to dig him one anyway, he supposed. How peaceful those tombstones looked. The elements of centuries had battered them, the moss and vines practically smothered some of them, yet they continued to stand, proud and unmoving, their stone surfaces softly glowing in the moonlight that filtered in through the thick branches overhead.

The archer's gaze presently fell upon a small pool of water in the center of the graveyard. It had rained the night before, and this was all that now remained of the large accumulation of water that had formed there. The archer now drew closer to it and peered into its glassy surface. Within the watery mirror he beheld a mighty warrior, fierce and indomitable, with his bow ready in hand and his eyes glowering with warning and defiance from within the mask that concealed his face. Memories began to flash by: a fervent pledge to challenge the authority of the First Spinjitzu Master, the energy shared with so many comrades devoted to what had seemed a worthwhile cause; rage, triumph. The heat and sound of fierce battle, desperation, and the stabbing sensation of the arrow. Try as he might, he could not remember what pain felt like, or what it was like to bleed, for ghosts have no blood and feel no physical sensations. The archer touched the wound on his arm again, or at least the area where he recalled it to have been. His wound had barely started to heal when he had been sent to the Cursed Realm, and as he had wasted away in shackles, his blood had simply vaporized.

Now the archer turned his eyes back to his reflection and saw that this figure was but a sallow, green mist that glowed feebly in the night, like the fog that often hung heavily on the forest's floor, only to disintegrate with the arrival of the warm sun. Then he noticed the white sphere glowing at the edge of the pool that was the moon far above. He turned his face to the forest canopy, where through the dark tangle of branches, the moon shone full and brilliant through a gap. It was beautiful and seemed almost within reach, hanging in the sky like a lustrous jewel laid on a bolt of black silk. But it was unattainable, as were so many other things because of his lot, because he was now nothing more than a cursed spirit bound to a dreary prison. All at once, he saw in the moon the eyes of the First Spinjitzu Master on that fateful day of banishment, wise and benevolent, ready to extend freedom and pardon to those willing to accept it. A great surge of anger ran through the phantom warrior.

"Curse you, you who created Ninjago!" he cried bitterly. "You knew how to break me. You have taken everything from me, even my name, but left my spirit for the pleasure of letting it suffer!"

"Keep shouting. Maybe he'll hear you." said a voice wryly.

Soul archer whipped around, only to see Bansha hovering nearby on the outskirts of the graveyard.

"How long have you been there?" he demanded.

"That is not important," replied the female ghost.

"I thought you were eating in the village."

"I was," she said. "It's a shame you weren't there to enjoy it."

"You don't say," said the archer coldly, turning his back on her.

"It's strange," Bansha said thoughtfully, sailing over next to him. "Ninjago has rejected you. Its people despised us, and they threw us away as easily as they would rubbish. We all have agreed that we must make it pay for what its people have done to us. Yet every Spirits' Night I see you lingering here, as though you were pining for something you badly wanted but couldn't have."

The archer did not look at her. "Haven't you someplace better to be?" he asked, almost tiredly.

"A very good question," the sorceress said. "As it would happen, I can't think of a better place to be now than here."

"That is unfortunate," he rejoined, but she pretended not to hear him.

"Admit it," she rasped, now sailing up front to the archer so that she was face-to-face with him. "You would do anything to be able to stay in Ninjago again. You are desperate enough to let yourself be made the right-hand man of a youth far younger and less experienced than you."

"Morro is young," admitted the archer, "and he has his weaknesses. But I also see many strengths in him, determination being perhaps his greatest. If he is the one who can liberate us, I will gladly follow him to the ends of the earth. He is likely tracking down the whereabouts of his sensei as we speak."

"We shall see soon enough if he is capable of proving his worth," stated Bansha. "Should he succeed though, the master will be released, and all sixteen of the realms will be under our curse."

"Yes, and we will be free to roam Ninjago again, no matter how many times we are destroyed by water," said the archer thoughtfully. "I look forward to that day."

"To be sure, there will be challenges awaiting us before we see that day," warned Bansha.

"Of course," said the archer. "And we will meet them all, regardless of who or what stands in our way. We are ghosts, remember. We are invincible."

"You seem to forget that we are vulnerable to water, something Ninjago has all too much of it seems," reminded Bansha. "Should we finally be able to escape our wretched prison and carry out our mission, it may only take a dousing to trap us there again."

"You speak the truth," said the archer.

"Are you afraid?" she asked, as though testing him.

The archer was silent for a moment. "I am uncertain of what the future holds," he finally said, "But I am not afraid. If for whatever reason our efforts should only end in our remnants mingling with the foam of the sea, so be it. We are not afraid of anything."

"I always liked that about you," Bansha purred with satisfaction. "You were always fearless, yet so mindful in your actions. Those qualities carried you through many a battle."

The soul archer smiled ever so slightly under his mask, although Bansha could not see this. From under his hood he pulled out the apple she had given him earlier. It shone delicately in the moon's glow. "Yes," he said. "And you were always bold in combat. You were relentless and never did hesitate to use your blade, or your magic. You were clever, though, when you didn't let bloodlust blind you. I believe Morro will find great use in you for whatever he has planned. Have patience, and Ninjago will be ours, and you will have everything you wish."

Bansha slowly laid her hand on the apple as well, but her eyes had a distant look in them now, as though something had suddenly come over her. "Yes," she said quietly. "Everything."

The archer gazed at his comrade curiously. "Does something trouble you, Bansha?"

Now it was the young sorceress who turned away. For a moment she remained silent, as though evaluating how to explain a difficult truth. "Perhaps it's time I told you," she finally said. "But something is pursuing me, something I cannot fight, no matter how hard I have tried to be rid of it."

"What sort of thing is it?" demanded the archer, intrigued. "What could trouble you the way you seem troubled now?"

"A most devious thing," she replied bitterly. "It has no form, but for the longest time it has made its presence known. It drove me mad, like an instinct urging me on to do the most foolish things. It drove me to ask you for the apples that grew on the trees we passed on our journeys, when I could have easily fetched them myself. I never ate them immediately; I carried them with me in my cloak as though they were one of the luck charms we use in the practice of sorcery. When I did eat them, each one seemed sweeter than the last."

"A most strange thing," agreed the soul archer. "Perhaps you were ill?"

"There were times I could have believed it," said Bansha dismally. "It filled me with all sorts of terrible feelings - mad joy, desperate longing, frustration, even fear in the midst of battle, would you believe! And yet, the fear was not for my own life…"

The archer frowned, becoming all the more perplexed at what kind of illness could have plagued his comrade all this time. "Bansha, what are you saying?" Perhaps it hadn't been an illness at all. Maybe there actually had been another practitioner of magic on the enemy's side all along, and he or she had cast some sort of spell that had driven Bansha to insanity.

The female ghost turned around to face him again, her eyes alight with a kind of desperation he had never seen in them before. "My judgement became clouded!" she cried. "Do you remember that fateful day, Archer, when we met our defeat in that final stand?"

"Like a thorn in the side," he said.

"You were struck by an arrow on your arm," said Bansha. "I saw everything. You were crippled, and the bowman who shot you was preparing to send another arrow your way while you were distracted, one I felt certain would be much deadlier than the last. The noise of the battle was too loud for you to hear any warning I could have shouted, and you were much too far away to pull out of harm's way myself. I was near enough to him that if I moved quickly, I could stop him from ever releasing the arrow. However, he was also near enough his own comrades that getting to him meant being captured, or worse, for sure. The wise thing to do would have been to remain where I was, lie low, and keep fighting from my safer position, even if it meant you would be killed. But I attacked him instead! I saved you, but I _did_ get captured, though I fought like mad! And for what was it worth?" she said miserably, casting her eyes down, like someone who is greatly ashamed of a crime they have committed.

"To be sure, it was hardly strategic," agreed the archer, for lack of anything else to say. This was a side of Bansha he had never seen before. Clearly, there was something very important she was trying to tell him, though he wasn't quite sure what.

Bansha raised her gaze again, so that her eyes locked with the archer's. He had never noticed how lovely they were; two lustrous spheres that shone in the pale moon, like gems of mystery that concealed wonderful and terrible secrets. Normally they had held a kind of malignant light within, promising misery to those who provoked the sorceress. Now, however, there seemed to be a softer glow within them, one that seemed to betray a sort of sadness and yearning that seemed uncharacteristic of her.

"When we were banished to the Cursed Realm," she said, her voice almost a whisper, so much softer than her usually harsh one, "and we wasted away, it seemed this thing had dissolved away with the rest of my mortal self. But soon I felt it awaken in me again, till it was perhaps even stronger than before. Even within the dark void of the Cursed Realm, even after I was reduced to this sorry state, it has followed me, haunting me. Whenever I am in Ninjago, it becomes stronger. And tonight, it is stronger than ever."

The archer's eyes, which had till now gazed intensely into her shining eyes, now softened, as though some innate understanding was coming to light in him. "Bansha?" he said quietly. "Just what do you suppose might this 'thing' be?"

She drew close to the archer and reaching out her hand slowly, closed it around his own (difficult, for a ghost). "Our paths are clearly marked," she said seriously. "I have not forgotten our goal. But tonight, it does not seem to matter if we ever release the master, or if we ever curse all sixteen realms, or even achieve revenge on Ninjago itself. Forgive me, my archer, if I have let myself be distracted from our mission. But there are times, especially tonight, that a terrible fear grips me. That our quest will separate us for good. I-I fear I will lose you!"

Suddenly, as though having quite taken leave of the last of her senses, she threw herself upon the archer and buried her face into his strong chest, taking him by surprise. Any other time he might have withdrawn from her; demanded what had possessed _her_. Yet he felt no desire to do either now. Instead, a peculiar feeling of longing washed over him, as though some ancient instinct that had been sleeping within all this time had now awoken. He gently enclosed his arms around the young ghost in a tender embrace, an idea he would have scorned only earlier that night. "Do not fret, Bansha," he whispered softly into her ear. "I am here. I will not leave you."

And then he felt it. It had begun as a subtle sensation deep inside, one he had not felt ever since he had become a cursed spirit, but he remembered it as being called "warmth." It rapidly grew more intense, till it almost seemed to burn, and he felt it spread throughout him, as though he were thawing from the inside out. For a moment, the archer almost felt frightened. Ghosts do not feel such sensations. He began to sense a gentle pulsing within his chest, and then felt as if something were diffusing throughout his body. It was the warm blood of life. Memories of living in Ninjago awoke, but these were not of war and death: the warm sun on his face as he ran in the tall grasses of his boyhood, the sweet taste of ripe fruit, the perfume of frail flowers and new life, birds sending their sweet song into the air; a faint fluttering within the chest when he had first set eyes on some lovely being of his past that was almost intelligible to his memory, yet was not quite discernable... He was now vulnerable, something that could be touched by suffering and pleasure alike… like a mortal. He felt as though he were a being covered in flesh again, not a shadowy vapor.

Suddenly, he felt a fiery sensation sear his upper right arm. His eyes fell upon his arm, still wrapped reassuringly around Bansha, only to see something red seep through his sleeve. The wound from that confounded arrow was alive again, bleeding silently with the pain that life bore. The archer winced slightly, letting a quiet grunt escape his throat. Bansha also felt the same mysterious sensations as the archer; felt them in him, as he felt them within her. She now turned her face up to him.

"Are you well?" she asked, concern in her voice. "You flinched; I felt it."

The soul archer gazed into her radiant eyes and beheld the round moon within them; the unattainable moon. A rush of déjà vu ran through his mind, and the mysterious specter of his memory began to materialize. What need was there for the unattainable moon when it had been here all along? The archer glanced for only a moment at his wounded arm, oblivious to its throbbing.

"I have never felt better," he murmured, and in a final act of surrender, laid his cheek gently on her head. Just as quickly as they had come upon him, the peculiar sensations suddenly vanished, and he felt like only a wraith again. The wound dried away, for there was no blood to be bled. However, his contentment had not vanished along with it. Somewhere in the treetops nearby, an owl called out in the still night air. Moments later, his mate was heard hooting softly in reply.

"I love you, my archer," whispered Bansha.

"And I love you, my songbird," returned the soul archer.

For some time, the two remained where they were in that lonesome graveyard in the woods, content to be in each other's company. There would be other days to exact revenge on Ninjago. They might have stayed longer than they did if their blissful silence had not presently been interrupted by the trill of a bird's song in the distance. Both ghosts looked up with a start, only to see that the moon had quietly slipped from the sky during the night; a sky that was now tinged a pale blue-gray instead of jet black. Another Spirits' Night was ending.

"The sun will be rising any moment now," said the archer quietly. "But we will be pulled back into the Cursed Realm before we can even begin to see it. We always have been."

Bansha chortled devilishly. She was returning to her old self, the spell now broken. "Never mind the sun," she said. "I always thought it shone too brightly, anyway. Let's deny our little prison the pleasure of sucking us in by force, and go in ourselves."

"Your brilliance never ceases to amaze me, Bansha," declared the archer. "After you, of course," he added, with a sweep of his arm.

"But surely," said the sorceress, taking his hand, "we go together."

And cackling, the two ghosts shot into the air, disappearing into the Cursed Realm through a dark portal that appeared, completely of their own will. Denial really was sweet. No sooner had they disappeared than the graveyard was plunged into an eerie silence, save for the subdued chirping of a lark up in a tree. A single brittle leaf dropped from an overhanging limb and drifted slowly to the forest floor, landing in the tall grass to join its brothers. A little snake softly brushed the leaf as it crawled by lazily, sluggish with the ever colder temperatures of the coming winter. Seeing a wide gap in one of the gravestones that had been created by the harsh weathering of the seasons, it slithered to the opening and silently disappeared inside it.

Time was at a standstill. All was still, so still that one would have never guessed that only moments ago anyone had been there. There was nothing in that clearing to indicate that any being had ever trod there. Nothing, save for a single red drop of blood that glistened on a shining blade of grass, shed by a wound from a single arrow.


End file.
